By midday, sunlight finally pierced the canopy, scattering warm gold across a small clearing. The moment Bran spotted it, he lifted a hand.

  “Break time.”

  Tyren immediately flopped onto the grass like he’d been struck down.

  “My feet are dying.”

  Lira tossed an apple at his head without looking.

  “Then stop stomping like an ox.”

  The fruit bounced off his forehead.

  “Uncalled for,” he muttered, rubbing the spot.

  Sera knelt beside her pack and unwrapped neat parcels of greenish herb bread. The smell was slightly sweet, slightly sharp.

  “It helps with focus,” she said, handing them out. “And… anxiety.”

  Joren blinked as she pressed one into his hands.

  “…Is it that obvious?”

  Sera’s lips curved softly.

  “You’re shaking again.”

  He stiffened.

  “Am not.”

  “You are,” she repeated — not accusing, just noticing. Her tone was warm, not mocking.

  Joren sighed, staring at the bread.

  The memory of those black orbs… the whispers… the way no one else reacted…

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He couldn’t shake it.

  Bran sat against a fallen log, uncapping his canteen.

  “You held up well after that scouting party,” he said. “Not everyone stays on their feet the first time.”

  “I fell down,” Joren reminded him.

  Bran shrugged.

  “Still didn’t run.”

  Tyren spoke through a mouthful of bread.

  “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve screamed like Sera did when she saw that beetle earlier.”

  Sera flushed.

  “It flew at my face! If something with wings the size of Bran’s hand flew at your face, you’d scream too!”

  “It was not the size of my hand,” Bran muttered.

  “Close enough!” Sera shot back, crossing her arms.

  Lira smirked.

  “You all sound like children.”

  Tyren pointed.

  “You sound like someone who definitely screamed earlier.”

  “I did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “I did not,” Lira repeated, cheeks coloring just a little.

  Joren couldn’t help it — he laughed.

  A real one.

  For the first time since leaving Graythorn, something inside him loosened.

  Bran noticed.

  “Good. You’re finally breathing again.”

  Joren looked away, embarrassed.

  But even as he tried to relax, his mind replayed the scene from earlier… the whispers… the pull… the sense that something was calling to him.

  Should I tell them?

  No… they already think I’m a nervous wreck.

  Sera’s soft voice broke through his thoughts.

  “Joren?”

  “Hm?”

  “You’re staring into the forest like something’s stalking us.”

  He blinked and forced a calm breath.

  “No, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

  Bran stood and tightened his gauntlets.

  “Alright, finish up. We’ve got another few hours before we reach the encamp—”

  A sudden gust tore through the clearing — sharp, unnaturally cold.

  The small campfire’s flame bent sideways, nearly snuffed out.

  Leaves swirled upward as if the air itself recoiled from something unseen.

  Sera shivered.

  “Did you… feel that?”

  Joren’s heart skipped.

  The wind carried a faint pressure — not a voice, not words, but something that pressed against his chest.

  Bran’s expression sharpened into the one everyone recognized.

  Not the teasing older brother.

  The leader. The warrior.

  “Everyone,” he said, rising fully.

  His hand moved slowly to his sword.

  “Get ready.”

  The forest went quiet again.

  Too quiet.

  No birds.

  No insects.

  Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

  Lira tightened her grip on her bow.

  Sera clutched her staff.

  Tyren slowly got to his feet, every muscle tense.

  Joren exhaled shakily.

  Whatever was coming…

  It wasn’t like the scouting party.

  Not even close.